Lipstick

Agnes' carer was shocked by the restock of her vanity (a field of shadows and blushes, a plethora of lipsticks). "Uh, Agnes," the carer began, but hesitated when Agnes began to laugh. "I've never worn the stuff," she giggled, "but the ghost that lingers in this room did - SO curious about it, SO happy to have a new pot or tube to obsess over." "WOW," the carer replied, sitting down (his eyes wide). "More words on that, please." "Well," Agnes said softly (perching on the edge of the bed and leaning forward slightly), "the room was cold, then hot; my things were here and then there ... it was going to be insufferable until, by chance, I was handed a sample lipstick from a makeup counter at the mall. I brought it home (I don't even know why; I tend to throw those in the trash) and set it on the table. It was a hit. Lots of activity, but nothing angry or sullen. I got a couple more and an eyeshadow combo at the thrift store ... it was perfection." "Perfection?" the carer repeated, intrigued (and Agnes nodded). "Things tidied," she whispered. "Mood music playing gently through Alexa; the scent of roses and jasmine in the air." He had smelt the fragrance and his mouth fell open. "Do you know who was here before?" the carer started carefully, not knowing if it was a good idea to share. "Of course," she replied. "A gorgeous little creature named Patrick Ogden Duncan. They're really lovely company; I wouldn't change a thing." They beamed at each other, the carer and Agnes Newell, feeling a truth hang tenderly between them: that the essence of friendship knows no boundary of time or space or mortality for that matter. And the carer, picking up and wiping down very quickly, saw a lip print on the mirror in the sunlight, as if it had delivered someone's fondest regards.